Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good match.

Thank you to Khloe Grace, blurry cornrow, GlimmerIcewood, and komiking for Elizabet, Calantha, Indira, and Beckett, respectively.

District Ten
Change

Presley Winters, 21
Victor of the 36th Hunger Games

She wished she had done more.

Presley shrank away as Glenn wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The two of them sat on the edge of her family's grazing land, surrounded by her sheep. Her best friends. Maybe her only friends, except for Tess and Glenn.

Glenn simply held her closer despite her feeble attempts to shy away. He was always so kind. So comforting. But, right now, she didn't need to be comforted. She didn't want to be comforted.

Maybe she didn't deserve to be comforted.

It was partly her fault, after all. There was more than enough blame to go around, of course. But Felicity had been her tribute. Her responsibility. While discussing the possibilities with their tributes, both Presley and Glenn had reluctantly agreed that the rebels had no chance. Allying with them would only mean death. Both Felicity and her district partner, Samson, had seemed to listen.

Once in the arena, they had done as they were told. The pair of them had fled from the bloodbath, managing to swipe a few knives and a bag of supplies while the Careers and the rebels targeted each other. When the rebels caught up with them the next day, Samson attacked them without hesitation and was slain quickly. Mercifully.

The rebels had offered Felicity a choice: join them or die. Surrounded and devastated by the loss of her only ally, Felicity had agreed. What had been going through her mind at that moment, Presley would never know. Maybe she had thought she was playing for time – that, if she waited long enough, she could slip away, or maybe take out a few of the rebels. Maybe she had truly believed them. Maybe their show of strength had been enough to convince her that they stood a chance.

Or maybe she had simply been scared.

That was the easiest explanation, of course. But that didn't make it wrong. It was easy, before the Games, to say that she was willing to die for her family's sake, that she didn't want to drag them down with her. But they hadn't been with her in the arena. It had only been her – alone, against a growing number of rebels.

Presley tucked her legs to her chest. What would she have done? What would anyone have done? Felicity hadn't been a rebel. She hadn't meant to defy the Capitol.

She had simply wanted to live.

But she hadn't. She had died.

And her family had died.

Felicity's family had been small. Her parents, Malcolm and Agnes. Her older brother Carlton and her younger sister Mirielle. The Peacekeepers had come for them early one morning and led them to the district square. Confused and bewildered, the four of them had offered no resistance. Maybe they had expected to be spared the fate of the other rebels' families. They weren't rebels. They hadn't done anything. Felicity had only been interested in saving her life.

But it didn't matter.

On the stage lay a large, wooden slab – almost like a short, stunted table, but covered with straps and chains. One by one, each of the prisoners was stripped of their clothes and laid face-up on the table, one next to the other, their arms and legs bound in place. Finally, the back of the table was raised a few feet and fixed in place at an angle, allowing the crowd to see the prisoners clearly.

There the four of them waited, helpless to do anything but watch as a Peacekeeper stepped forward with what looked very much like a butcher's knife. Positioning himself at the end of the table, beside Carlton, the Peacekeeper pried the boy's hand open. Carlton squeezed his eyes shut, but it did no good. His screams echoed through the square as the Peacekeeper sliced off his thumb.

Blood began to flow, but two more Peacekeepers immediately stepped in with bandages and some sort of mixture, which they rubbed into the wound. Soon, the bleeding stopped, but the other Peacekeeper paid no mind. He had moved on to the next prisoner and sliced off a toe. One by one, he moved down the line and back, leaving the fingers and toes to lie where they fell.

Once this was done, the knife was replaced with a cleaver, and, one by one, he hacked off their hands and feet. Each time, the other Peacekeepers stepped in, not wanting any of their prisoners to bleed to death. Occasionally, the four of them were given water. At first, they refused to drink, but, hanging there in the hot sun, with Peacekeepers prying their mouths open and pouring it down their throats, they soon had little choice in the matter.

Once their hands and feet had been severed and left to lie there on the stage, a saw was brought forward, and their limbs were removed in pieces – first severed at the elbows and knees, then at the shoulders and hips. The Peacekeepers proceeded more carefully now, first cutting off the blood flow, then stitching up the bloody stumps as best they could.

Even so, the prisoners quickly began to faint from the heat, the shock, the loss of blood. But the Peacekeepers were patient, making sure to revive their victims before proceeding with the next cut. One by one, their limbs were sawed off, then released from the straps that had held them and allowed to drop to the stage beside the other severed parts.

At last, the four of them simply hung there, dismembered, held in place by a few straps about their chests and waists. The endless screaming had slowly turned to whimpering sobs and pleas for death. Their bare chests heaved up and down as they breathed in ragged gasps, watching as the Peacekeeper exchanged the saw for a small scalpel.

The Peacekeeper approached Mirielle first and slowly, carefully, dragged the scalpel across her belly, opening it. Reaching in, he sliced off a small piece of intestine. Then another. Then another. When she fainted, he moved on to her father as the other Peacekeepers revived her. Then her mother. Then her brother. Then back. Piece after piece fell to the stage as the four of them cried out, begging for the stroke that would simply end it all.

But that stroke never came. Their work done, the Peacekeepers simply stepped back and left them there to die. And, one by one, they did. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, what was left of Mirielle's body went completely limp in its bonds. The Peacekeepers, after failing to revive her, sliced off her ears and nose, tore out her hair, plucked out her eyes, and, finally, severed her head, which fell to the stage in front of her family.

One by one, the others followed, and were likewise dismembered. Last of all, their torsos were released from the table and allowed to drop to the stage along with the rest. By then, it was nearly nightfall, and the Peacekeepers dismissed the crowd. They returned to their homes without question.

But Presley knew no one had slept.

The next day, everyone was expected to continue their lives as normal. As if nothing had happened. As if it were that easy to simply go back to the way things were.

Presley buried her face in Glenn's chest. Nothing would ever be the same. None of them would ever be the same.

She hadn't thought there could be anything worse than the Games. Killing other children in a fight to the death – surely that was as bad as it got. But she had spent most of her Games exploring the arena with her two companions, a pair of lions she had befriended. They had fought together. Killed together. But the kills had been quick. Merciful.

And she had never lost an ally, because she'd never had any proper allies in the first place. The two lions had abandoned her, in the end, but that was only to be expected. And they were still alive, somewhere, in a recreation of her arena. Scarlet, who gave tours of previous arenas, had assured her that Leon and Liana were always a hit with the visitors. All in all, her Games hadn't been the nightmare that some of the others had endured.

Even mentoring, which many Victors dreaded, wasn't usually as bad as she'd been led to believe. She'd always had Glenn beside her, sharing the burden, lightening the load.

She'd lost only four tributes before Felicity. Each was a loss, of course, but, if she was being honest with herself, none of their deaths had been terribly unexpected. Two had died in the bloodbath. One had been found by the Careers on only the second day. The other had made it to the fourth day before falling prey to Jasper's Career pack.

And, as terrible as it sounded, she hadn't expected anything else. Every mentor went into the Games knowing that, more than likely, their tribute would die. It was horrible. But that was what tributes did. That was how the Games worked.

This was different.

Deaths in the Games were sometimes brutal, certainly, but, for the most part, they were over fairly quickly. Occasionally, there was a tribute who preferred to drag it out. To gloat. Maybe someone who held a grudge against a particular tribute and wanted to prolong their deaths. But they were the rare exception. Even the Careers, despite their reputation for bloodthirstiness, usually realized that a quick death was safer for them – that way, they didn't run the risk of someone else seizing the opportunity to kill them while they were finishing off their prey.

This was different. Malcolm. Agnes. Carlton. Mirielle. Their deaths had been slow. Drawn out. Agonizingly cruel. Just like the deaths of the other families across Panem. The deaths of the eleven rebels in the Games, before Avery arrived to end their torment.

She had thought nothing could be worse than the Games. But she had been wrong. This was worse.

And it had to stop.

They had to go back to the way things were.

The Games were horrible, yes, but they were better than the alternative. Better than what had happened to Felicity's family. Better than the price the districts would pay if they continued to resist.

Better than the price they were already paying. Two extra tributes. Two more teenagers who would go to their deaths in the arena. Two more people who could have been safe. Would have been safe, if things had gone just a little differently. If Felicity hadn't been so scared. If Presley had been more forceful, more convincing. If she had done her job better.

Presley swallowed hard. This year, she would do better. She would do her best to bring a tribute home, of course, but, even if she couldn't, she would make sure that their families were safe. That the tributes would play the Game, even if it cost them their lives.

"I'll take two," she said at last, quietly. "I'll take two this year. This is my fault. My responsibility. I have to fix it."

Glenn nodded, as if he'd been expecting that reaction. "All right. I just … I want you to know, Presley … It's not your fault."

Presley looked away. Glenn was sweet. He was kind. But he was wrong. It was her fault – at least partially. And this was the only thing she could do, the only thing that might right that wrong. She couldn't make things better, but maybe she could help stop them from getting worse.

Wordlessly, the pair of them headed for the square, stopping only long enough to pick up Tess. Presley waited uneasily at the edge of Victors' Village while Glenn went to find her mentor. Since returning from the Games, Presley had avoided Victors' Village, including the house that was supposed to be hers.

Glenn insisted there was no harm in accepting the rewards that came with being a Victor, but she had wanted no part of them. She hadn't wanted to be a Victor. She had just wanted things to go back to the way they were.

Presley mustered a smile when she saw Tess, who nodded back and even waved a little as she and Glenn rejoined Presley at the edge of Victors' Village. Tess' recovery had been the only good thing to come from Presley's Games. But at least it was something. It was a small victory, and one that truly belonged to all of them. And, amusingly enough, Presley had been the only tribute Tess had mentored, giving her a success rate no other Victor could claim.

Tess wrapped an arm around Presley's shoulders. "The three of us, then, I guess."

Presley glanced at Glenn, who nodded. She had no doubt he had offered to take two tributes, as well, so that Tess could remain in District Ten. But after years of leaving Glenn to mentor on his own, Tess wanted to do her part. Presley could understand that.

The three of them took the stage together – an odd sight but a welcome one for the district. The tribute who had won without striking a single blow, who had spent his Games hiding in the swamp. The one who had retreated into an almost comatose state after the shock of her Games, spending nearly two decades under Glenn's constant care. And the tribute who had turned down her rightful place in Victors' Village, preferring to return to her parents, her dogs, and her sheep.

Maybe the three of them deserved each other.

Presley did her best not to look at the stage as they took their seats. The table and the bodies were long gone, of course, but bloodstains still dotted the stage. Presley glanced up at the crowd, instead. At the sea of teenagers, four of whom would soon be up onstage – and three of whom, at least, would never return.

Presley swallowed hard as District Ten's new escort, Leonel Kaska, took the stage. After their longtime escort, Hillary Walker, had finally retired, District Ten had gone through escort after escort, none lasting more than a few years. District Ten was a stepping stone to them – a place to get experience before being moved up to a more reputable district.

Leonel would probably be no different, Presley reasoned from the look on his face. He was clearly disgusted with the district already, and disappointed with the three Victors who sat behind him as he headed for the first reaping bowl. He reached in quickly and grabbed the first piece of paper his fingers touched. "Calantha Harlyn!"

There was silence for a moment as everyone scanned the crowd. Finally, the sixteen-year-old section parted to reveal a girl sitting on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest, slowly shaking her head back and forth. Quickly, the Peacekeepers stepped forward and hauled her to the stage, dumping her roughly at Glenn's feet.

Glenn was at her side in an instant, helping her up, drying the tears that fell freely down her face. She was short and slender, dressed in a blue crop top and black pants. Her skin was well-tanned, and her wavy dark brown hair hung around her shoulders. Her brown eyes were full of tears as she turned towards the crowd, and she was still shaking as Leonel made his way to the second bowl and quickly chose a slip of paper. "Beckett Furlan!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted once more, this time around a boy in a rumpled white button-down shirt and a pair of grey pants. For a few seconds, he simply stood there, shocked. But, as he stepped forward, a smile slowly found its way to his face. His steps were smooth and confident as he took the stage, smiling at his district partner.

He was taller than Calantha and certainly more muscular, his hands calloused and his fingernails chipped. He was fair-skinned, with short, dark blonde hair and blue eyes. His smile, though clearly forced, held as he nodded to each of the Victors in turn, then extended his hand to Calantha, who wiped her hands nervously on her pants before shaking it.

Neither of them noticed Leonel, who had returned to the first reaping bowl. "As the first replacement for Felicity Struthers … Elizabet Brower!"

Confused murmurs filled the crowd as the fifteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a short, faded green wool dress. For a moment, she stared, confused, at the escort, at the two tributes who already stood onstage. But, just as the Peacekeepers began to move towards her, she stepped forward obediently and followed them to the stage, taking her place beside the other two without complaint.

She was a bit taller than average – almost as tall as Beckett, in fact – but very thin. She was fair-skinned, with long, copper-brown hair and golden-brown eyes. Still a bit bewildered, she shook Beckett's outstretched hand without question, then turned to Calantha, who had started to cry once more. Elizabet stepped forward, hesitating only a moment before wrapping her arms around Calantha, embracing the other girl for a moment before turning her attention back to Leonel.

Leonel shook his head dismissively as he reached into the bowl once more. "As the second replacement for Felicity Struthers … Indira Serren!"

"Damn it," a voice grumbled loudly as the eighteen-year-old section parted for a girl in a simple, scoop-neck black dress and black flats. The girl was still swearing under her breath as she stepped forwards towards the stage, despite a nearby girl's obvious attempts to calm her down. Her fists were clenched tightly as she took the steps slowly, one by one, her swearing subsiding a little with each step.

The girl was tall and wiry, with dark skin and deep brown eyes. Her hair was thick and dark, almost black, and hung to the middle of her back. Finally, she managed to clench her mouth shut, holding back the storm that was bubbling just below the surface, forcing a smile as she turned towards her district partners.

Beckett couldn't hold back a smirk as he held out his hand. "Bad day?"

Presley braced herself for a full-blown fight as the girl opened her mouth. But, instead, to her surprise, what came out was a laugh. And not just a wry chuckle, but a full, rich laugh. "Could be better," the girl admitted. "You?"

"Could be worse," Beckett pointed out. "At least the company is good." He gestured towards his district partners.

Indira didn't miss a beat. "I bet. One of you, three of us. We'll have a blast."

It was Beckett's turn to laugh. "Not literally, I hope."

"Let's hope not," Indira agreed, shaking Beckett's hand and clapping him warmly on the back. Then she turned to Elizabet and Calantha, shaking each one's hand in turn.

Once the tributes had been led away, Glenn turned to Presley. "You should take those two. Beckett and Indira. They'll be a handful, but I think they'll work well together."

Presley nodded. "If that's all right with you two—"

Glenn smiled warmly. "Absolutely." He turned to Tess. "Calantha or Elizabet?"

Tess thought for a moment before answering. It was the first time she'd been asked to pick a tribute; Presley had insisted on having Tess as a mentor. After a moment, she decided. "Calantha."

Glenn nodded. "All right, then." He helped Tess up, and the three of them headed for the train.

For a moment, Presley felt fifteen years old again, on the way to the Capitol with Glenn and Tess. It was amazing what had changed since then – everything and nothing, all at once. She had thought, coming back from the Games, that she was safe. For six years, she had waited, hoping that things would go back to the way they were.

But they wouldn't. She wouldn't. She couldn't. Not now.

It was time for a change.

Beckett Furlan, 16

Everything was about to change.

Beckett leaned forward a little as his boyfriend Asher sank into the chair across from him. There were tears in Asher's eyes as Beckett laid a hand on his. "Check in on my mother every now and then while I'm gone, all right?" Beckett asked as casually as he could.

While he was gone. As if he was just going on a trip. As if he was going to see the sights in the Capitol, live the good life for a few days, and then come home. Of course, that was a possibility, but the Games loomed between the 'good life' part and the 'coming home' part.

His mother had taken it fairly well. Better than Beckett had expected. But, of course, this was just the beginning. It would hit her later, he was sure. When it did, he wanted someone to be there for her. And Asher was the only one he could depend on to do that.

It hadn't started that way. At first, he had envied Asher, who had seemed to have everything. Two loving parents. A good home. As much wealth as could be expected in Ten. Everything Beckett had once had. Everything he would never have again. At first, he had simply wanted to reconnect to that life. To experience everything he had lost.

But now things were different. Both of them had grown. What they had now was better. More real. Maybe his life wasn't perfect, but it was good.

And now everything was about to change again.

Even if he made it home, he would come home a killer. A murderer. Only one person had ever escaped the Games without blood on his hands, and that had been decades ago. If he came home changed, damaged, like Presley or even Tess … Would they still accept him? His mother. Asher. Would they still love him?

"Beck—" Asher started, but couldn't seem to get the words out.

Beckett squeezed Asher's hand tightly. "I'll be back soon."

Asher squeezed his hand back. "Just … just come back." He looked up. "I mean it, Beck. I don't care what you have to do. Whatever happens, you can get through it. Just … just come home."

Beckett nodded. "I love you."

Asher looked up, a bit surprised. He'd said it before, of course, but only after Asher had said it first. But he didn't want to forget to say it. Not now. Not when it mattered more than ever.

Not when everything was about to change.

Elizabet Brower, 15

Everything had changed.

Elizabet sat staring at the closed door long after her family had left. It still didn't feel real. Didn't feel right. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be here. They had already called two names. They already had their tributes.

Why would they want her, too?

Elizabet buried her face in her hands. It didn't matter now. Didn't matter whether she was supposed to be here or not. She was here, and there was nothing she could do about it. She was going to the Capitol. To the arena. To the Games.

Maybe to her death.

Elizabet shook her head. She didn't want to die. She didn't want to go. She just wanted to stay here, in District Ten, where things were … well, certainly not perfect. But good. She had a good family. Good friends. And that was usually enough to make up for the fact that they never seemed to have enough food to put on the table. That they had never been able to make ends meet without taking tesserae, without putting her life and little brother Kadence's life at risk.

The full weight of that risk had never truly hit her – not until now. At only fifteen years old, she'd already had her name in the reaping bowl twenty times. She'd already had more of a chance of being picked than some of the wealthy kids two or even three years older. Maybe it shouldn't have come as such a surprise…

Still, there were others. Older kids with larger families, just as poor. But they had gotten lucky – this year, at least. And she hadn't. That was all it was. Just luck.

And now she would have to get lucky again. Very lucky. Of the forty-one Victors so far, only three had been from District Ten. Only three of District Ten's tributes had come home. Three out of eighty-three.

Not exactly the best odds.

But three was better than none. That meant three more people who wanted to bring her home – her, or one of her district partners, at least. Three people who wouldn't be trying to kill her.

Maybe even three people who cared.

Elizabet took a deep breath. Okay. Focus on that. There were people who cared – both here, in District Ten, and people who would be in the Capitol with her. That was a little comfort, at least. There were people who cared. People who loved her. People who wanted her to come home.

And that would never change.

Indira Serren, 18

Some things would never change.

Indira unclenched her fists as her brother Auron wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Their parents had already left, wanting to give them a moment together. Adopted parents, technically – just as Auron was technically her adopted brother – but she had never thought of them as anything but her family.

"So much for luck, huh?" Auron muttered. Indira smiled half-heartedly. Six years ago, after her first reaping, he had told her that it was good luck that her first reaping was his last. Since he'd made it through his seven years, he said, that meant she would, too.

She knew better now, of course. Auron had made it through seven years of the reaping not out of luck, but because of sheer numbers. Their family had never had to take tesserae, so even during his last year, Auron only had his name in the bowl the standard seven times. She'd had seven, as well, this year. There were so many kids – kids her age and even younger kids with poorer, larger families – who had their names in twenty, thirty, or even forty times. Pure mathematical sense said that Auron would probably be safe. That she would probably be safe.

Probably.

But 'probably' hadn't been enough to protect her. Not this time. And 'probably' wouldn't get her through the Games. It wasn't up to the numbers now, and it certainly wasn't up to luck.

It was up to her.

And, as frightening as it was, part of her was glad. Glad that it wasn't up to chance, or fate, or whatever. Glad that she had some say in what happened, in how the Games played out.

Not that it was all up to her, of course. There were other players, too, each thinking the same thing. Each trying to figure out how they could make it home. Stronger players. Faster players. Smarter players. Players who had trained their whole lives for this.

And they would all have to die – every single one – if she was going to come home.

Indira wrapped her arms around Auron one last time before the Peacekeepers came. "I love you," she said quietly.

Auron held her close. "I love you, too … and you're coming back."

The words seemed to echo long after Auron had gone. You're coming back. He believed that. Truly believed that she had a chance of coming home. He would always believe in her, and, for that, she would always be grateful.

She hoped that would never change.

Calantha Harlyn, 16

She would have to change.

Calantha paced back and forth across the room, trying to keep from crying again. Her parents had come and gone. Her best friends, Maurice and Oregon, had followed. Then a few of her friends from school. Each one brought a new wave of tears as the reality sank in again and again: She might never see them again.

Calantha wiped the tears from her eyes. Stop it. Stop crying. She'd already made a mess of her first impression at the reaping. She couldn't afford to be seen as a crying weakling for the rest of the Games. She wasn't weak. Not really. She was just scared. Like everyone else.

But no one else had cried.

Calantha shook her head as she fingered the token her parents had left her: a small, round mirror – small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. Her hands were shaking as she stared at her reflection, her face damp and her eyes red from crying. That would have to change. It would all have to change.

She would have to change.

She would have to be strong now. Stronger than she'd ever been. Stronger than she'd ever wanted to be. She'd never seen herself as weak, but she'd never really thought of herself as particularly strong, either. Not in a way that was really special. She'd never really wanted to be special – not really. She just wanted to be herself.

But now that wouldn't be good enough.

Average wouldn't be good enough anymore. Normal wouldn't be good enough. The Capitol didn't want to see normal, everyday people. They wanted to see someone unusual. Someone new. Someone spectacular.

So that's what she would have to become.

It was an act. That was what she could say. The tears at the reaping – they were an act to gain people's pity. To make them think she was weak. To avoid attention – to avoid her district partners' attention. Yes. Yes, that was good. They would ignore her at first. All the better. She didn't need them to pay attention to her. There were other people out there. Other people who would notice her. She could tell them it was all a lie – the weakness, the tears.

If only it were true.

Calantha clenched her fists tightly. It could be true. It would be true, soon enough. She would be brave, strong, fearless – everything the Capitol wanted.

Slowly, she wiped the tears from her eyes, smoothed out her shirt, and slid the mirror into her pocket. Soon, the Peacekeepers would come for her. She would be on the train. Heading to the Capitol.

The change would have to start now.

"I can't change the past. I can only take responsibility for it."